Mouthful of Diamonds
by The Creature
Summary: When an old enemy returns to London he brings with him information on a very important missing person's case which was left unresolved for the past ten years. Emotions will break through seemingly cold exteriors when the Holmes Brothers resume their search for the one that was lost.
1. The Price

_November, 2015_

It was a cloudy day in November when the news came.

It came in the visage of an extremely distressed Mycroft Holmes.

"He's back Sherlock." There was a different nature to Mycoft Holmes's voice as he relayed this latest information to his brother. A nature of emotion that Sherlock did not miss.

"Who's back Mycroft? Do be more specific." Sherlock chided his brother anyway, suspecting that it must have been another of those Moriarty imposters, they had an entire forum for it on the internet, and one of their latest stunts that had the British Government so worked up. But he was not ready for the reality of Mycroft's next words.

"Joseph Coriello." Mycroft said seriously, "He's back, Sherlock. And he wants to speak with _you_."

_December, 2005_

Sherlock knocked on the door of his childhood home one unhappy Christmas Day. He could smell the turkey roasting in the stove and his father and brother speaking in hushed tones in the next room over some secret they did not wish Mummy to hear about.

Sherlock's mother, the woman herself, must have had her hands full with something because her yelling voice was quite audible even from outside the front door.

"Enola! Be a dear and see who is at the door, won't you?" Sherlock's mother called into the house. Whether there was a reply or not was unknown to Sherlock, who obviously couldn't hear everything, and so he simply waited for the ultimate result. This came when the door opened to reveal the perhaps not-familiar-enough fourteen year old face of a blue eyed girl with brown curls on her head and thick eyebrows.

"Will!" She cried, rushing towards the twenty-seven year old man and hugging him tightly. Sherlock brushed aside an errant curl from Enola Holmes's eyes fondly and returned his little sister's embrace.

He lowered his head so that his mouth was level with the girl ear and muttered softly into it.

"Happy Christmas Enola."

"Happy Christmas to you to William." Mrs. Holmes said from the doorway causing the two to turn to look at her.

"Come inside you too, you're letting in the cold."

Obligingly, sister and brother followed their mother into the house, Sherlock closing the door behind them with a soft click.

Mrs. Holmes lead the two into the sitting room where Mycroft and Mr. Holmes's conversation had changed into one about the weather and the flight of local Aviaran wildlife.

"Alright you two." Mrs. Holmes said, demanding her husband's and eldest son's attention, "William's finally back home, just in time for Christmas. Now, you should all settle yourselves down while I finish up with the turkey." She almost left the room before doubling back as she remembered something, "And Siger?"

"Yes Violet?"

"Do remember you promised to make William's favourite for dessert."

"Oh Mummy please." Sherlock laughed, "I don't need-"

"William." His mother shushed him, "Your father and I are talking."

"Yes Mummy." Sherlock sighed, turning to look at Mycroft who seemed to be feeling dreadfully out of place during this whole engagement.

"Oi." Enola said, getting Sherlock's attention, "Do you want to see my room?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling suddenly much better to be able to get away from the ever looming eyes of his parents and brother.

Enola lead him expertly out of the sitting room and up the stairs to the part of the house Sherlock used to think of as the "nursery".

He couldn't remember being in this part of the house since he was at the very most twenty two years of age. That would have been about five years ago, when Enola was nine and he was still majoring in Chemistry at Cambridge.

Back then the room had been painted a soft pink colour, a shade his parents had been told was all the rage for baby girls' rooms. There had been a twin bed with a black duvet with planets and stars covering it. There had been framed posters hanging on the walls featuring Billie Piper and the young Daniel Radcliffe and a small bookshelf featuring _The Garden Gang_ series and other such monstrosities.

This room was different.

The walls were painted white and had posters of Lily Allen and Girls Aloud taped across them. The bed had a simple black duvet and the bookshelf had been replaced with a large Macintosh desktop computer and monitor.

"Mummy bought you a computer." Sherlock said as he noticed this fact.

"She relented." Enola grinned, flopping back down on her bed.

"So." She said finally after a moment's silence, "You're clean now, right? Off the drugs."

Sherlock was temporarily taken aback but pushed himself to respond, "Yes, I've got them all out of my system."

"Good." Enola said, "That's good. Really good. Brilliant even." She sighed, "I'm glad for you, Will."

"Thank you Enola." Sherlock smiled back at his little sister as he sat down beside her on the bed, offering his hand for her to hold. She took it gratefully, holding tightly to his fingers as they lay beside each other looking up at the white painted ceiling of he

_November, 2015_

"What's going on Sherlock?" John Watson was asking the consulting detective as the two walked the long hallway that lead to St. Bart's morgue.

eed to know is that the matter is of great importance." Sherlock said, pushing open the double doors of the morgue. He then turned to the Pathologist on duty, "Molly-" he began, but the look on her face cut him off.

"A man came in today, Sherlock." Dr. Hooper said seriously, "He said this was a present, for Will. He said to tell his 'good friend Will Happy Christmas.'"

"Will? Sherlock isn't that your name?"

"My name is William. No one ever called me Will. No one except-"

"Enola." Mycroft walked through the door of the morgue, his usual stride noticeably off.

"Mycroft's in on this too?" John asked, "Sherlock, you've got to tell me what is going on."

"Joseph Coriello." Said Sherlock, he spat out the words as if they left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Whose that?" John asked him crossing his arms across his chest.

"A drug lord turned fugitive after kidnapping and allegedly killing a fourteen year old girl ten years ago." Molly said, "I remember him from the papers, it was a big topic back then. I always wondered about the girl, though. Who she was."

"Her name," Mycroft said, "was Enola and if there is any chance, no matter how slim, that she could have survived, we will do anything in our power to find her."

"What?" John asked, "Why? Is she important? If she was kidnapped ten years ago and the police think she's dead, then she's probably not going to show up alive and kicking anytime soon."

Molly looked over at Sherlock whose face showed an expression of fear and uncertainty that seemed so foreign on the face of the consulting detective.

"Shut up, John." Molly hissed at the man who began to protest but then thought better of it after meeting Molly's glare.

"Isn't it obvious?" whispered Molly into John's ear after Sherlock left them alone in the morgue, "Enola Holmes."

_December, 2005_

"Enola! William!" Sherlock's mother called from the base of the stairwell, "Come down to the sitting room. It's almost three o'clock. The Queen is about to speak."

When there was no answer Violet Holmes sighed in frustration before adding, "And after that it will be time for dinner!"

The sound of her two younger children clamouring to get down the stairs was almost humorous to the mother of three who had to fight to keep her composure as the two pushed at eachother, both trying to be the first to get down the narrow stairwell. Mycroft, who had come to stand nearby his mother rolled his eyes at the two and muttered, "goldfish" under his breath.

"Prat!" Enola replied as she punched Sherlock in the stomach.

The young man laughed, "It isn't as if you are any better! Hitting people isn't nice Enola."

"I wasn't even talking to you Will."

"Would you both just shut up?" Mycroft finally moaned, "You're utter insolence and wasted potential is putting me off." Mycroft turned to his mother and offered her his arm, "Come along Mummy. Father is waiting for us in the sitting room, the Queen's message is being broadcast by ITN this year."

Enola and Sherlock watched silently as Mycroft led their mother towards the sitting room before slowly turning to look at each other.

"I am _not_ insolent." Enola said.

"Neither am I, but he was spot on with one thing." Sherlock cocked his head thoughtfully, "I am stock full of wasted potential."

_November, 2015_

"Will! Willie Holmes!" The man had black hair and black eyes, his smile was large and toothy. "Look at you! You're all grown up, aren't you?"

Unimpressed, Sherlock looked the man over, taking notes. _Nicotine stains on his fingers but only on his right hand. Likes to hold a burning cigarette or cigar but his teeth are extremely white, probably does not smoke as much as use such things to keep his hands busy. Also, right handed. Mainland European, slight Italian accent. Upper-clchrome_find class="find_in_page"ass Venice. Polluted by frequent, long stays in Great Britain, mostly lower clchrome_find class="find_in_page"ass parts of London, England from his pronunciation style and either New York City, New York, United States of America or somewhere just outside of the city._

_Also an atrocious man who kidnaps young women and murd-, no, keeps them hidden away from the world for a decade._

"Do not even attempt to act as if this were merely a social call, Coriello." Sherlock said, "Now, tell me why you are here and what you want with me."

"William-"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"I would rather call you Will."

"I would rather you call me by my name, Sherlock Holmes."

"But that isn't really your name. Is it William?" Coriello paused as he looked Sherlock up and down thoughtfully, "Did you change it to Sherlock out of grief?"

"Shut up." Sherlock shot back, anger floating just below the apathetic surface.

"She's alive 'Sherlock'." Coriello said with a smile.

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"At least, that's what you're hoping for." Coriello shrugged, "I'll tell you where she is . . . for a price."

"That's why you're here. To get money." Sherlock realised.

"Oh yes, now you know my terrible secret." The man frowned, "I'm broke."

"New York City didn't treat you as well as you had hoped it would?" Sherlock asked him, already knowing the answer.

"No one wants the poisons anymore, Will. Not like you and you're peers did." He smiled wryly, "I used to cater to the elite by selling the cleanest poisons around. It isn't in my nature to sell my wares off to just any homeless junkie."

"You were your own ruin."

"Just so, I suppose." Coriello's face then broke into a grin, "But you'll help me, won't you Will? Because you want to find your little baby sister. Dead or alive. And big brother will pay for it all, and do you know why?"

Sherlock cursed himself as he gave in, "Why?"

"Because no matter what either of you say, you both care." Coriello turned to look at the wall of the New Scotland Yard interrogation room, "Don't you remember what I told you two that day ten years ago? Caring is not an advantage William."

_December, 2005_

Sherlock felt a buzzing in his pocket and pulled out his phone, looking at the text he had just received. Mycroft looked over at his brother from across the table warily. He put down his knife and fork and held out his empty hand.

"What?" Sherlock asked him innocently.

"You know 'what'." Mycroft replied, unamused, "Give it to me William."

"What's the problem boys?" Asked Siger Holmes.

"Mycroft is trying to take my phone." Sherlock told him.

"You know the rules, Will, Mike." Violet Holmes saides at the table."

"You're in trouble." Enola smirked, not looking up from her plate.

"It just went off." Sherlock argued, looking towards his father for support, "Father?"

"I'm sorry I said anything." Siger said, hands raised in surrender, "I don't want any part in this."

"William." Mycroft said, snapping his fingers, "The phone."

"Fine!" Sherlock said, handing it over to his brother and slouching back in his chair to brood silently.

Mycroft then flipped it open and narrowed his eyes at what he found.

"Get out." He hissed.

Enola looked up, eyes wide at her brother, "Mike?"

"Out!" It was a rare occurrence to see Mycroft like this. But now the man's voice was approaching a roar. He stood, pushing his chair over as he did. His arm was outstretched, finger pointed at the door.

"What's going on Mycroft?" Violet asked the man what it was; knowing but not wanting to believe it.

Siger was staring down his younger son with a silent look of helpless fury.

Sherlock stood slowly, "I haven't. Mycroft?" He turned to his mother, "Mu-"

"No, William."

"Enola, I haven't-" he turned to his younger sister who was just sitting in the chair beside his, looking up at him with shock and bewilderment.

"Do not bring her into this!" Siger said, "Enola, go to your room."

"But, what's going-"

"Oh for heaven's sakes, can you not simply do as you're told for once?" Mycroft cried, slamming his hands down against the table rattling the glchrome_find class="find_in_page findysel"assware, "Or are you too stupid to know when it is not your place?"

"I'd rather be an idiot then be like you freaks!" Enola shouted, "At least I get to be normal. Maybe I'm not a genius with scary brain powers but I'd rather be normal then be a freak like you, Will, and mum! Yeah, mum! You're a grownarchrome_find class="find_in_page"se man! Stop calling her Mummy like you're a two year old."

Throwing down her silverware, Enola stood up in a fury and stomped out of the kitchen, leaving through the front door which she slammed angrily behind her.

"Now look what you've done." Sherlock muttered, rushing out the door behind his sister.

At the sound of yet another slam, Mycroft Holmes hung his head in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut as he remembered his words.

"Damn." He cursed, swinging around to follow his siblings'' leads out the door.

"What was that, Mycroft?" Violet asked the man with anger in her voice, "Why would you say such things?"

"I am sorry for my actions, Mummy. Father." Mycroft said, addressing his parents in turn, "I swear, I will do everything in my power to make this right."

_November, 2015_

"He wants money." Sherlock said dryly the moment he had left the interrogation room. He was met with his brother's tired sigh.

"Yes, I suppose he would." Mycroft said, "Any information would be as an exchange for such capital."

Sherlock nodded silently, forcing himself not to look back through the one way window at the man who had single handedly changed his life forever.

"How much Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, chequebook in one hand, a pen in the other.

"Five-million pounds sterling." Sherlock replied grimly.

"I will draw the cheque."

"Brilliant."

For one glorious moment the only sound in the room was that of Mycroft's pen scratching against the paper. But then came the tearing noise and Mycroft was standing up and making his way towards the door of the interrogation room.

He paused, "Sherlock."

"What if it's no use Mycroft?" Sherlock asked him, turning to look his brother in the eyes. His sockets red and shimmering with the threat of tears, "What if she's dead? We could be paying off Enola's murderer."

"I know, Sherlock. But we must try to find her. If there is any chance." He paused, his breath shaking slightly, "I never was able to make things right."

_December, 2005_

"Enola!" Sherlock called out, his voice beginning to go hoarse, "Enola! Please! Come out!"

"It is no use, William. We have been searching for hours and it is beginning to get dark." Mycroft said as he caught up with his brother, panting as he tried to catch his breath. _Maybe he shouldn't have eaten that extra helping of- oh! What does it matter now. What's done is done. There is no use dwelling in the past._

"It's your fault this happened!" Sherlock said, turning on Mycroft angrily. "She wouldn't have left if it weren't for you!"

"I was trying to keep her out of the world you live in. It ruins people. It ruined you." Mycroft hissed back.

"I promise, I don't know why Joseph sent me that message. I'm clean, Mycroft."

"How can I believe you?"

"You can't." Sherlock said dryly, "But I swear on my life: I am telling you no lies."

"That does not help your standing much, brother." Mycroft said darkly.

"Yes, but it is quite a relief on my conscience."

"At least there is that."

They stood there, in the field, three kilometres away from their childhood home, in silence as they tried to process the events of the day.

Finally Sherlock spoke.

"I forgot my coat."

"What? Oh yes. It _is_ rather cold out here." Mycroft said, "Here." The older man wriggled his arms out of the sleeves of his long, dark coloured Belstaff, "Where this."

"But won't you-"

"I will be fine, William. I have the jumper Mummy made for me."

"Yes." Sherlock said, putting on the coat all the while noting the very strange look of his older brother in a garish green and red woollen jumper with an oddly squished looking Father Christmas on the front, "I suppose you do."

Then there was the scream. _That_ scream. The one that would change the Holmes' lives forever.

_November, 2015_

"Aww! Mycroft. Finally come to your senses and writing me a cheque I presume." Coriello grinned at the older man.

"I notice, Joseph, that your price hasn't changed at all." Mycroft replied, calmness strained.

"Well, back then you couldn't even scrounge up a measly three million pounds. Now you're writing cheques for the full price without a second thought."

"If there had been anyway-"

"You would have if you could have." Coriello said, brushing off the British Government with a flick of his hand, "Believe me," he plucked the cheque from Mycroft's hand, "I understand."

"You have what you want. Now it's time for you to hold up your end of the bargain." Sherlock said hastily, "Where is Enola Holmes."

"Last I saw her was in New York, New York." Coriello shrugged, "She was alive, not going to say she was well, but she looked like she was having a ball so-"

"Where. Is. She." Mycroft asked him through clenched teeth.

"Alright! Alright!" Coriello said, "She ran away in NYC in 2008. But she sent word to me pretty recently actually. About a month ago. She said she needed a ride home and she could not think of anyone else who could help her."

"Tell us where she is, Coriello, or I swear I'll-" Sherlock grabbed the front if the man's shirt and was holding it so tight that the man almost rose out of his chair.

"She sent me an address. 3211 South Maple Drive New Orleans, Louisianna."

Letting go of the man Sherlock was off. Mycroft paused, giving Coriello one last look before following after his younger brother.

The two were met by Detective Lestrade when they reached the hallway.

"Let him go." Mycroft ordered.

"Let him go? What?" Lestrade asked in confusion, "He's a criminal! He-"

"Let him go, Lestrade." Sherlock said, "and get my brother and I a police car to take us to the airport. We need fast as possible and that means sirens."

Mycroft was on the phone, "Anthea, ready my private jet. I need a ride to New Orleans. We are departing for America the moment my brother and I reach the airport."

"Sherlock!" A voice called out the moment the Consulting Detective and his brother had reached the lobby.

"What are you doing here Molly?" Asked Sherlock, not faltering in his step.

Hurrying to keep up, the pathologist answered him as quickly as she could, "John sent me. He can't be here because of Mary and the baby. But I can help you, Sherlock."

Suddenly she had grabbed the tall man's arm, stopping him momentarily.

"You're going off to find her, right?" She asked him, but didn't wait for a reply, "Sherlock, I have to tell you something. You won't like it but I have to help."

Sherlock turned, going to join his brother in the police car.

Molly sighed, turning to leave when Sherlock shouted her name expectantly.

"Molly! I thought that you wanted to come with. Get in then, or we are leaving without you."

"Wha-"

"Do try not to prolong this, Ms. Hooper." Mycroft said, covering the mouthpiece of his phone, "Time is of the essence."

Obediently, Molly did as she was told, sliding in beside Sherlock as the engine roared to life and the sirens began to shriek.

_December, 2005_

"Good of you to come find me, Will. And this must be the older brother! Mycroft! I've heard so much about you."

"I have not had the same honour." Mycroft said, "Who are you?"

"I'm certain you've heard my name! I'm a friend of Will's."

"Awww," Mycroft realised, "Now I see it. You are the dealer."

"I prefer 'intenditore di veleni'."

"'Connoisseur of poisons'." Sherlock muttered.

"Either way, I would be most grateful of you to leave." Mycroft said primly.

"But I have not even been able to tell you the good news!" The man complained with a grin.

"And what would that be?" Asked Mycroft.

"I found the little girl."

"You found Enola!" Sherlock said springing to life, "Where is she? Is she alright?"

"Well, that would be for you to decide. She's alive but . . . Who knows what that might be."

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked the man darkly. "Anything you ask for we will give. All we wish for in return is the girl."

"Anything!" The man exclaimed, "My! That is generous. Let's see, business has been bad lately. I think five million pounds sterling would do the job."

"Five mil-" Mycroft breathed.

"That is a bit much. How about I let you off with simply a cheque right here, right now for three million pounds."

"I-"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock said, "You must! Please."

"I- I can't William." Mycroft said, "I, I can make some calls. I can."

"Time's up Holmes boys." The man said, "no cheque, no girl."

"Please! There must be something else you need!" Mycroft begged.

"Not really, no." He said, turning to leave, William, I was simply going to take you. But Enola is so much better. And those breasts, so pert and young."

"Don't!" Sherlock cried, "Mycroft, do something!"

Mycroft was on the ground on his hands and knees, his head hanging low.

"I- I can make a call. I have contacts." He was murmuring to himself.

"Oh come now Holmes boys. Caring is not an advantage." And with that, the man was gone.

The sound of a helicopter taking off was all the brothers needed to affirm that Enola Holmes was indeed gone.

_November, 2015_

Sherlock had filled her in on the plane ride. The whole story of that Christmas Day ten years ago. Molly had listened and she had known.

"She isn't going to be there in New Orleans, Sherlock." Molly had told him after a long silence, "I don't believe that Coriello even had her back then."

"What are you saying Molly?" Sherlock asked the pathologist, a look of tired distress across his face.

"The case, I was in my late twenties at the time, finishing medical school. This case, I was obsessed with it. My cousin was around the same age when she had disappeared on Christmas Day one year before. I thought she must have been kidnapped, perhaps by Coriello." She pulled some files out of her bag. "I never thought it could have really been her but . . . "

She handed them to him with shaking hands.

"I put these together. Five years ago I was working in an internship position at Homerton University Hospital in Hackney when a body came into the morgue matching the description of the victim." She looked down, "I never connected Enola Holmes with you and Mycroft until earlier today. I, Sherlock. I'm sorry for your loss."

And as he looked at the photos of the young woman, for once he did not deduce. If he had, Sherlock Holmes would have seen a body, female, around eighteen at time of death. He would have seen a tattoo of three goldfish on her left arm and the signs of undernourishment in her cheeks. He would have noted how her elbows were speckled with irritated bumps and there was a rash, dermatitis?, on her hands. He would have seen the irritation on her cheeks and nose. The dilated pupils. He would have known then. But he didn't see these things. And all Sherlock could do as he looked down at the pictures of the dead woman was gasp. Then choke. Then sob. And suddenly he was exhausted.

Arms were around him then, consoling him, hands stroking his hair. A voice saying it would all be alright. But it was a lie. Because Enola Holmes was dead, and she hadn't even been taken away. She had left and had not even gone far.

"Hackney." Sherlock choked out. And then Mycroft was standing over him.

"What are talking about Sherlock? Why are you-"

Sherlock handed Mycroft the file. "That's where she is. That's where she's been the whole time. Mycroft."

But Mycroft wasn't listening anymore as he called for the plane to turn around.

_July, 1991_

It was, perhaps, the worst summer holiday of William Sherlock Scott Holmes's thirteen years. He had come home from Eton in early July to a sadly deceased dog and a younger sibling growing inside of his mother. Mycroft said that it had been for Redbeard's own good that they put the dog down. He had been twelve years old, ancient for a dog, and had hardly been able to get back up after lying down. Still, Sherlock blamed the inferior tumour quickly approaching time of birth within his mother's ever expanding stomach.

And now, at the culmination, the little boy waited, almost alone, in the hospital waiting room with only his older brother to keep him company, though whatever company it was did not seem like much.

"Mike?" Sherlock began, garnering the nineteen-year-old's attention.

"Mycroft, William. My name is Mycroft." The redhead sighed before turning to his brother, "What is it?"

"I don't want it."

"The baby?"

"Of course the . . . thing." Sherlock said, an ill look on his face, "It is like a bad omen. Ever since it came, bad things have been happening."

"Oh dear William. Is this about Redbeard?" Mycroft asked, a hand on his head in weary frustration.

"No!" Sherlock said much too abruptly.

"William, there is no such thing as a spiritual sort of omen, good or bad. You know this. Did I not explain to you the nonexistence of Father Christmas, god, or any of that utter rubbish when you were about to begin Key Stage Zero?"

"Yes, I know Mike- I mean, Mycroft. But this, this thing. It shouldn't be coming. It isn't right. You're finally moving away for University. You have a flat in Oxford for the Summer Holidays and Winter schooling. Mummy and father and Redbeard and I. We were finally all alone. Now I will never have them to myself."

Mycroft's eyes softened at the sight of his younger brother in such a state. It was all that pain, that internalised stress over the loss of his best friend. The fear of these new developments in a life that he seemed to have no control over that were now rising to the surface.

"William, I- " Mycroft paused, wondering if he should truly say those next words, "I believe it would be best for you if Mummy and Father were to send you to the state school in town."

Sherlock looked up at his brother aghast, "Leave Eton College? Mycroft, you aren't serious!"

"I believe it would be best for you if you were to stay close to Mummy and Father." Mycroft said, "If you are set on staying in a public school you can find a similar education at somewhere else nearby. Winchester College perhaps?"

"But, I've only just begun Mycroft! And I can't stop now. Eton College is the best place for a Holmes to be." Sherlock was frantic and utterly flabbergasted that his older brother, house captain of Oppidon House his senior year and undoubtedly a future grand investor in the institution, would make such a suggestion.

Mycroft sighed, taking a handkerchief out of his breast side pocket to dab unnecessarily at his forehead. This was one of Sherlock's older brother's common tells that had turned into a simple habit. It usually meant he was disappointed, most commonly in Sherlock, or upset.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." Mycroft said and Sherlock was surprised to see him give a slight smile as he spoke his name.

"Mycroft Conan Eldon Holmes?" Sherlock asked back in kind.

"A Holmes is not made by his education. Nor is it the speed and skill through which you show the knowledge that you have accumulated. It is not the way you speak or the awards you recieve. To be a Holmes, and mind you I will only say this but once. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what makes a Holmes is heart, persistence, and an incredible sense of survival. You have all the skills you need to live up to your potential instilled within you already." Mycroft paused momentarily before clearing his throat and continuing with a single, soft spoken remark, "Our only difficulty is that we tend to reject the world and instead gravitate towards expansion of our minds, information. One thing that the both of us must always keep in mind is that we cannot allow ourselves to be isolated in this world."

Mycroft smiled wryly to himself, "And that is what it means to be a Holmes. That is who we are and that is what we are made of."

The brothers shared a look in silence while in the background were the sounds of scurrying feet, high-pitched alarms, and the ringing of telephones.

"Alright, you two?"

The woman's voice moved the boys to turn their attentions towards the direction of the door leading to the delivery rooms. The doctor smiled at the two before speaking again.

"Are you the Holmes boys?" She asked.

Mycroft stood stiffly from the waiting room chair, "We are."

"Good." The doctor said, "Well then, would you like to meet your new baby sister?"

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft before turning to the woman and shaking his head yes.

"Follow me then." She motioned to the door.

Sherlock stood up hastily and hurried to keep up with the doctor and his brother as the three made their way through the double doors and down the white, sterile hallway. The doctor led them to a door and motioned for them to be quiet as she reached to open it.

"Mum's been through a lot today and she'll be needing her rest. Alright boys?"

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at eachother, up at the stark white ceiling, and then back at the woman. Sighing in unison the brothers shook their heads yes.

Then, the doctor opened the door.

There was Violet Holmes looking as alert as ever, sitting up on the hospital bed with a couple of pillows brought from home to prop up her back. Siger stood by the window, there was something in his arms that he kept rocking gently in one arm while he used his other to point out different things on the other side of the glchrome_find class="find_in_page"ass.

It was the boys' mother that noticed them first and she gave a great shout to her husband.

"Siger! Come over here and show your sons their sister!"

When his father finally turned around, Sherlock was astounded. He had not been expecting the tiny creature he saw in Siger's arms.

"Would you like to hold her?" Sherlock's father asked, looking from brother to brother.

Mycroft was standing stock still, hands stuffed inside his trouser pockets and lips pursed tightly as he stared at the wrinkly newborn human.

Sherlock decided to respond in his brother's stead.

"I thought the doctor said it was a boy."

His mother gave a snort, "The doctors made a mistake."

"She a bit ugly, don't you think?" Sherlock said next, causing both of his parents to laugh this time and fostering a stern look from his brother who had finally come out of his trance, of sorts.

"I- I will take her Father." The oldest Holmes child said finally. He held out his arms, expertly using them to hold the body and support the infants head when his father placed her carefully in his care.

"What is her name?" Sherlock asked, peeking over Mycroft's shoulder to get a better look.

"We thought it would be best for the two of you to decide." Violet smiled, "Just don't choose something she cannot live with. Last time this happened you almost ended up with the name 'Sherlock' by the will of your brother."

"It is my name though." Said Sherlock, "At least, a middle name." He turned to Mycroft, "What about him? Mycroft isn't even normal."

"Family name of a good friend who passed away a month or two before your brother was born. It's his choice that we do not call him Mike anymore." Violet said pointedly.

"I presume 'Eudora' is already a chosen middle name." Mycroft said, ignoring the conversation.

"Yes, of course, you're right Mycroft." Siger said.

"Of course it will not be her primary title." Violet said.

"Of course." Echoed Mycroft in terse agreement.

"I like Enola." Whispered Sherlock almost too low for his bother to hear.

"Enola?" Mycroft asked, "That is not even a name."

"No." Their mother said suddenly deep in thought, "Enola Eudoria Hedasa Holmes. I like it William. It has a nice ring."

"Just as long as she is always Enola, I suppose." Mycroft conceded, "I simply loath the name 'Nola'."

"So it's done." Said Violet, "Good, good. Now Mycroft. Give me my baby."

As the two spoke in their usual kind of discourse Sherlock watched in silence until he turn at the feeling of his father's hand on his shoulder.

"William." Siger said with a smile, he was the normal one out of the Holmes. A business student who had met a young Oxford elite over one of her longer breaks in a London pub where she was revising the final draft of her first maths textbook before sending it into her professor to read over pre alerting a publishing company. Now he was married to her with two - no - three children and a somehow ever-calm and collected disposition and incredible ability to openly care for those around him.

"William. Would you answer me one question?"

"Yes Father." Replied Sherlock, "Of course."

"Why Enola? Really. Why choose this name?"

For a moment Sherlock was silent thinking, and then, slowly, he answered, "I could say it is a name, and that would be true. It is Native American in origin, meaning 'magnolia'. But that is not why I suggested it. Intriguingly 'Enola' spelled backwards, is 'alone'. I chose Enola because it carries with it a very specific meaning. No matter where she goes, no matter what she does, no matter what she becomes, Enola Eudoria Hedasa Holmes will never be one thing. She will never be alone."

_November, 2015_

Sherlock stood in the Homerton University Hospital morgue in Hackney, London, England between Mycroft and Molly. There was a body on the table, one that, under the explicit request of Doctor Molly Hooper, had been kept in the morgue and had been left untouched after autopsy for the past five years.

Just this morning there had still been hope. Sherlock had still been able to pretend that the girl named Enola was still alive. Just this morning there had been a villain, a man to blame when worst came to worst.

Now there was nothing but abstract ideas, and emotions, and pain, and death.

And Mycroft was crying, really truly crying.

"It can't be her. There has to be something else. Something we missed."

"It's her Mycroft." Sherlock spoke and, as he did, he tasted the salt on his lips, "But there is still something we can do for her."

"Are you entirely certain you wish to do this, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked warily.

"It's all I can do." Sherlock said, reaching out his hand to hold the cold, dead fingers of his sister, so different in their still-frozen state, "I have to know what happened. I cannot let her be alone any longer."

It was a cloudy day in November when the news came.


	2. We Made You

_December, 2005_

Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes entered slowly through the front door of their childhood home and were immediately greeted by their mother and father who were sitting stony eyed at the kitchen table.

As soon as the door had latched behind them Violet Holmes had stood up and was running over to meet her sons. She looked around urgently and then moved her eyes from Sherlock to Mycroft before finally asking the question.

"Where is your sister?" Violet asked them, deep creases forming in her tall brow, "Where is Enola?"

And with that Sherlock Holmes watched as his brother fell to his knees and began to vomit. The entire experience too much for either of them. But, instead of doing what would have been most comfortable and take his mother into his arms so he could cry and tell her how sorry and stupid he was, Sherlock retracted back inside of himself. He eyed his mother coldly and then looked down at his older brother with one of disgust.

"Are you quite done?" Sherlock asked when Mycroft's heaving had finally ceased being the only sound in the room.

"William!" Sherlock's mother gasped, "Why would you? William, Mycroft. Where is Enola?"

Violet's voice trembled as it turned from scolding her younger son to pleading with him to tell her of her daughter's whereabouts.

"We couldn't-" Mycroft croaked, his throat raw from the stomach acid, "I couldn't- He took her away."

"He?" Siger Holmes asked, finally adding his own input to the conversation, "Who's 'he'?"

"I- I don't-" Mycroft began with a stutter.

"His name is Joseph Coriello." Sherlock said, interrupting his brother, "And he is going to pay."

_November, 2015_

Mycroft had wanted to bury her straight away but Sherlock had disagreed. This time he swore he would not be taking any chances, and there was still an investigation to be done on this body. Or so he kept trying to remind himself as he stood in Saint Bart's morgue where the body had been moved from the Homerton morgue that morning. He almost wished he could let this rest as he looked over the somewhat freeze-preserved corpse of his long dead sister.

Doctor Molly Hooper was going over what she knew on her own with Sherlock while John stood nearby reading the original autopsy notes taken by one of Molly's former higher-ups.

"According to these notes her death seems to be a suicide." John finally said, gaining both the consulting detective and his pathologist's attention.

Molly nodded, "She died in the A&E, she was brought in by ambulance called in by another young woman who said that the two lived together. She said that the victim had gone into her bedroom one night in a state of panic, saying there was something following her. Supposedly incidents like this had begun happening a few months before and had been becoming more and more frequent as time went on. According to her flatmate she had become used to going into her bedroom each morning to wake her up and to check on her."

Molly looked sadly down at the body of the young woman.

"On the morning the ambulance brought her in the flatmate said she wouldn't wake up."

John Watson glanced up at his best friend, "Hyperthermia."

He handed the file to Sherlock for him to review.

"I know it says that, but hyperthermia is treatable." Sherlock said, "It must have been something else."

"Sherlock, you of all people should know just how dangerous these kind of things can become." Molly said, putting a hand on the tall man's arm, "The organ damage was too severe prior to being admitted into the hospital. There wasn't anything anyone could do."

"They could have done one thing Molly." Sherlock said, "They could have saved her."

Molly shook her head, "By the time she was brought into the A&E she was already brain dead."

"So?" Sherlock questioned, "What is the issue there? I was brain dead once, quite recently in fact."

"You weren't brain dead Sherlock." John said, "You momentarily did not have a heartbeat. And, anyway; I am still amazed that you haven't shown any signs of major psychological damage or long-term trauma as a result."

Sherlock stood there silently for a moment, looking defeated. Finally he turned his attentions back to the long-dead body.

"What did you test for in the toxicology reports?" He asked finally.

"The usual things, you know this. Common drugs of abuse and toxins, most used over the counter and prescription drugs, especially hazardous and mind altering types. And then the really available stuff like caffeine, nicotine, and doxapram." Molly answered with a sigh.

"Sherlock-" John tried to begin.

"Shut up!" Sherlock spit out, causing the two doctors to flinch away at his sudden coldness, "She would not have done such a thing. Not Enola." Sherlock said as his eyes softened the moment he turned back to look at the body, "Enola wouldn't. She would never."

_August, 2010_

"_Emergency. Which service?"_

Siwsan Owen almost choked on her rushed words in answer to the operator's question.

"Emergency! I mean, oh god. My friend! My friend won't wake up!" Siwsan cried, "She's blue and she won't wake up! Ambulance, I need an ambulance here now!"

"_I'll just connect you now."_ said the operator in a calm voice before she was cut off.

"No! But I need an ambulance here now!" Siwsan screamed into the phone; but no one was listening to her anymore.

It felt like hours before she heard another voice coming from across the wire.

"_Hello, where are you calling from?" _The voice, now male asked with infuriating calmness.

Siwsan's voice trembled as she rattled off the address to her flat.

"_What is the nature of your emergency?" _the man then asked.

"Is it coming?" Siwsan asked instead, "The ambulance. Is it coming?"

"_I need you to answer my questions before I can send it along." _The operator said, _"Now I need you to tell me what's wrong."_

Siwsan took a deep breath before answering, "My friend won't wake up." She said as she began to cry, "She won't wake up and her skin is really dry and hot and kinda blue and- Where is the ambulance? Why isn't it here?"

"_Calm down. Now I need you to tell me where you are. Can you do that for me?"_

For the second time in her entire life Siwsan told a calm 999 phone operator her address.

"_Alright. Good." _The operator said, _"You are doing very well. I am very proud of you. Now, has anyone been injured?"_

"No. Not really." Siwsan sniffed, "Just Les."

"_Is that your friend's name?"_

"Uh huh." Siwsan nodded unnecessarily, "Leslie Ragostin."

"_Alright, good. All I need to know now is your name, address, and your own phone number."_

Siwsan hurriedly repeated these for the man who thanked her and told her he would _"send somebody along." _before ending the call.

Siwsan let her mobile slip from her hands and hardly noticed when the phone broke as it hit the ground.

"Please be alright." She sobbed as she looked down at her best friend, a young woman with long, curly brown hair and the images of goldfish tattooed on one of her arms.

_January, 2006_

Mycroft Holmes sat as still as a statue upon his makeshift throne of cushions on the bed in his sister's waiting bedroom. His hands clasped in front of his mouth as if he were in a state of silent prayer. He had looked at the bedroom as best he could without disturbing it, and now he had begun to contemplate risking his government job to order an unauthorised cheque for five-million pounds sterling to be written per the order of one Joseph Coriello.

And he did believe he would have done just that, in an instant, if it were not for one thing. The doubt. There was a reason behind Mycroft's current attempt at constrained deductive reasoning and it was that he had his doubts about Coriello's part in Enola Holmes's disappearance that Christmas night, now more than a month previous.

_Firstly, although he had not realised it until he had played it back over in his mind four days later after he had gotten out of that damned 'sentimental' rut, the scream that had alerted his brother and himself to eventually finding Coriello was definitely not that of Enola Eudora Heddassa Holmes. The scream they had heard consisted of one high frequency component and then had a low intensity after that. If it had been indeed a female voice at all; the scream would have had a band of median intensity and would have gradually tapered towards the end._

'_This brings us to the conclusion that the scream William and I heard was, in all actuality, male.'_

"Have you found anything of interest yet?" Came a cold voice from the doorway, almost startling Mycroft, but not enough for the man to let it show.

"I have." said Mycroft calmly, not even making an effort to turn and look at the stranger standing in the entrance to his sister's still uninhabited bedroom, "I am unsure of its worth though. In the end I am probably wrong in my current assumptions."

"Oh please!" Sherlock said, _that was what he preferred to be called now: Sherlock Holmes._ "When have you _ever _admitted being wrong _Mycroft_?"

He spit out the name angrily, his eyes narrowing in distaste of the older man still sitting cross-legged on his pillow thrown.

"William . . ." Mycroft began but was immediately cut off by his younger brother who stalked furiously into the room to stand on the other side of the bed, directly across from Mycroft, forcing the man to look him in the eyes.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. You do not have the right to call me by anything else, especially not _that_."

Sherlock looked different now, even as an addict he had not looked so thin; his eyes so cold; his body wasting away beneath those dress shirts and fitted suits he had begun to wear.

_Enola once said he looked dashing in a suit_, Mycroft remembered off handedly.

Once more his eyes flickered over to the Belstaff he had yet to find the heart to ask for back. For some reason Sherlock was hardly ever without it these days, ever since Christmas he . . . No, it was best not to dwell on his brother's behaviour. Instead, it would be more industrious of them to concentrate on Enola specifically.

"Sherlock," Mycroft corrected himself, "due to the pitch and tremor of the-"

"You believe that the scream was not Enola's." Sherlock finished for him, "You snake."

"Pardon?" Mycroft asked in confusion, usually Sherlock kept his insults along the lines of 'prat' and quips about his weight.

"Snake!" Sherlock said again with a growl, "You don't want to find her do you? You entertain false ideas, muck up the evidence, and turn everyone onto your side while pulling them away from me!"

"Will, I-"

"My name is Sherlock!" The man warned, "You ran her out! It was you. This is all your fault." Sherlock leaned in closer so that the tip of his nose was almost touching Mycroft's, "This was all some sort of elaborate plan, wasn't it? Some kind of vengeful conspiracy."

"Sherlock, I swear that I haven't the slightest clue what you are accusing me." Mycroft spoke in his calmest voice, attempting to push his brother back from the brink of total insanity.

"I am sure that you don't." Sherlock said dryly as he stood up once more, straightening his collar as he did, "This is the only lead we have, _brother_. Enola would not simply leave us without any explanation. This is all there is left."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

_November, 2015_

"What was her name?"

"Excuse me?" Molly asked, looking up from her stacks of paperwork to glare at Sherlock as he began rifling through the files of recent post-mortems in the box beside her desk. John gave her an apologetic look before grabbing his best friend around the shoulders and hoisting him up from his knees.

"He wants to know the name of the woman who came with Enola on the ambulance to the hospital.

"Um . . . I believe her name was Siwsan." Molly stuttered, trying to remember all she could about the girl. She had only met her twice, once in the morgue for an unhelpful identification that had turned out to be a false name and once for coffee so Molly could question her knowledge of her flatmate's history and time before the two had become acquainted.

"Siwsan who?" Sherlock urged his pathologist onwards, putting his hands on her shoulders and pleading with her to continue, "What is the woman's surname, Molly? This is important. Molly." Sherlock took a deep breath and his voice trembled over his next words, "Molly, please."

"Owen!" Molly shouted in relief, finally remembering just what it was. "Her name was Siwsan Owen."

"Alright, good." Sherlock said with a sigh, sitting down in one of the two chairs across from her own and motioned for John to sit in the one beside him. Then he picked up a paper and pencil from Molly's desk and held them ready in his lap.

"Now." Sherlock began, "What did Miss Siwsan Owen look like?"

_July, 2006_

Siwsan Owen was a pretty girl with curly black hair pulled into braids and large spectacles that did nothing to hide her dark brown eyes that shown out against her chocolate coloured skin. She was also short, shorter than most people and heavy too, weighing in at around 12st. But that was better than being a size six, stick thin model type with nothing to hold onto. At least that was what Siwsan was thinking as she glared through the smoke at the tall girl with dark brown ringlets in her hair, clashing against the pale white of her face and whose electric blue eyes were at the same time frightening and intoxicating. She looked at least ten years younger than most of the people in the pub but was using her odd attractiveness to her advantage as she motioned to the barman for another pint, simply staring at him dully when asked for some ID.

"You didn't ask me before." She told him without much emotion in her voice or on her face as she did so.

"My employer wasn't here before." The barman told her with a sorry smile and then reached over to take the empty pint glass out of her way, "Anything else I can do for you?" He winked, eyeing the girl's chest, which honestly wasn't too much to look at.

Siwsan scoffed, she couldn't see what the draw was to skinny girls but all the men seemed to fancy them. Sadly, so did she. She didn't have to understand it, but the desire was still there. The only problem was that those kinds of girls rarely ever appreciated any other female body type. That and they were usually straight as rods.

A little hope rose up in Siwsan's chest as the skinny model sneered off the barman's advances, standing as she grabbed her coat and made her way out of the pub and into the rain.

Siwsan worked fast, dropping her change on the counter, not even bothering to ask back any extra as she made to follow the girl.

It wasn't until both women were out the door that Siwsan remembered that she hadn't taken her mac out of her rucksack, having forgotten to don it in her rush to persue the tall goddess from the end of the bar.

She opened her bag and took out the folded up, waterproof vestment and was about to put it on when a female voice caused her to halt.

"You were watching me." The blue eyed girl said, her hair soaking wet from the pouring rain; a dark brown anorak hiding away her lanky form.

"Um . . . Yeah. I s'pose I was." Siwsan giggled a little, blushing slightly at the feel of those Technicolor eyes watching her like that.

"Tell Mycroft he can stop it. I don't need anyone watching out for me. It's been half a year or more and I'm still alive aren't I?" The girl's nonplussed appearance in the pub had changed dramatically, now she looked angry, and perhaps slightly betrayed.

She didn't seem as tall as before, not now that Siwsan was able to get a closer look, in fact the girl was hardly a centimetre taller than Siwsan herself and she was only a five in feet.

Now the goddess looked less like a warrior woman and more like just another young mortal girl.

"Sorry, but I dunno any Mycroft's." Siwsan told the girl with a small smile, finally getting her arms into her mac, "If I did I'd tell 'em their name was awful strange. Dontcha think, though?"

The girl almost laughed at that, but held firm as she asked, "Do you promise?"

"I swear it." Siwsan told her earnestly, holding up her right hand in a three fingered solute, "Guide's honour."

"Alright." The girl said, breathing out a sigh of relief.

"Alright?" Siwsan asked.

"Alright." The girl nodded.

Siwsan grinned then, showing off two rows of perfect white teeth, never needed braces to straighten them out, a fact the young woman was very proud of.

"Good." She said, "How old are you then? Got kinda silent when the barman asked for some identification."

"I'm fifteen today," the girl said shyly, "It's my birthday."

"Happy birthday then . . ."

"Leslie." Leslie told her quickly, "Leslie Ragostin, but my friends all call me Les."

"What are you doin' in a pub all by yourself drinking on your fifteenth birthday without any supervision, Les?" Siwsan asked the girl, thinking of her as more cute than gorgeous now.

"I don't know." Leslie shrugged, "My friends aren't so friendly anymore, I guess. Also, I was bored. Needed something to do. My brother used to shoot up heroin. I think he had a thing with cocaine too but no one ever really talked to me about it. Never want to try any of that, though. I stick to cigarettes and the occasional pint." Leslie then looked over at Siwsan again to grin at the older girl. "How about you then? What's your story?"

"My name's Siwsan Owen. I'm eighteen." Siwsan said, "Originally I'm from Cardiff but we moved to London when I was thirteen."

"Aw," Leslie said, "Wales." She turned away from Siwsan to look to the street again before speaking once more, "I grew up in the Hampshire countryside near Winchester."

"You've got a bit of the sound." Siwsan agreed with a snort.

"And you sound like a taff." Leslie shrugged, "I suppose it all must mean something to someone somewhere."

"Yeah," laughed Siwsan, "I s'pose it must."

_November, 2015_

Sherlock pressed the buzzer for the third time in two minutes.

"Why isn't she letting us in?" Sherlock asked John who stood beside him.

"I don't know, maybe she's not home." John shrugged, brushing off his friend's annoyance.

"Oh she's here." Sherlock said, "She is on maternity leave from work and new mother of twins, no less. Where else would she be?"

John's mind flicked over to Mary and her time on maternity leave. "Probably not the shooting club."

"We aren't speaking of your wife, John." Sherlock informed the other man dryly just as a sound came from the intercom.

"Who is it?" A female voice asked from the other side, she sounded frazzled and a bit worn out.

"Siwsan Owen?" Sherlock asked, unnecessarily.

"It's Siwsan Owen-Tyler now." She said shakily, "What do you want?"

"My name is William Ragostin. I'd like to speak to you about my younger sister, Leslie." Sherlock said earnestly.

There was a long silence from the other end of the intercom and John was about to give up and turn away when there was a click of a lock and the door in front of them opened to reveal a plump woman with a small baby monitor in her hand.

"Come on in. I'll make you up a cuppa."

_February, 2006_

"Nothing!" Sherlock threw the photographs across the room. Not a single one of the private investigators hired by Sherlock's parents had been able to make any headway into Enola's disappearance. It was like they had given up. There was no communication between the P.I.'s and Scotland Yard the entire project seem almost impossible to follow through with.

The photographs had been from a certain, award winning investigative reporter. _Her_ _name was something strange, Kitty Riley. _She had contacted Sherlock and sent him some photographs taken in Berlin of a man and a teenage girl matching the description of Coriello and Enola. One single look at the photos had told Sherlock otherwise. He swore he would ruin this Kitty Riley. She would never work in a respectable newspaper ever again. First he would soil her reputation and then he would delete her from his life.

He had never tried _that _before, but he swore that he would take Riley and all those other wastes of space 'investigators' out of his mind palace once and for all. He would work with Scotland Yard, he did not need these imbeciles help to find Enola. He would have the police aid him in this investigation. If they persisted in ignoring him though, well, Sherlock Holmes could be very, very persuasive.

_November, 2015_

"So you're Will," Siwsan Owen-Tyler marvelled as she put the kettle on in the half-kitchen that opened up into the sitting room with only a countertop between them, "I've heard 'lots about you."

"Yes, Leslie and I did not always see much of each other but we were always very close." Sherlock replied with a sad smile that to John Watson almost appeared real. It was almost like Sherlock Holmes was actually being honest with this particular lie based off one of his sister's own lies- John had never seen _Inception _but he supposed it was something like this.

"Well, she loved you loads." Siwsan said, she went to a desk on the other end of the sitting room and opened one of the bottom drawers. She pulled out an old binder-like book which she looked down at with sad fondness before bringing it over to where Sherlock and John were seated.

"I was a bit o' a photographer at the time we knew each other." Siwsan told them wistfully as she handed the binder to Sherlock who opened it to find picture after picture, almost all of them of the same, skinny, brown haired girl.

"She was me model." Siwsan explained, "most beautiful woman in the world, that's what I told her." She frowned and John noticed the younger woman's eyes were welling up with tears, "Never believed me though, did she? I still can't believe she would . . ."

Siwsan sniffled and turned away as she began to cry silently, "I s'pose that's the kettle." She said in relief as the sound of low whistling began to moan through the flat. She hurried to the kitchen leaving Sherlock and John to gaze at the photographs.

"God, Sherlock," John murmured, "She was gorgeous."

"Beautiful. Perfect." Sherlock muttered, "All words to describe Enola."

But, though he clutched his fingers possessively around the binder, Sherlock's eyes were on Siwsan Owen-Tyler who was pouring three cups of tea in the kitchen.

"What are you thinking Sherlock?" John asked his friend slowly, making sure not to be too much of a distraction to Sherlock's 'process'.

"Mrs Owen-Tyler," Sherlock began, causing the younger woman to look up from her task, her eyes red and blotchy from crying. Not waiting for any more a a response, Sherlock continued, "What is your wife's name?"

_July, 2006_

"So, this is it." Siwsan said as she opened the door to her one bedroom flat and spun around the tiny sitting room proudly.

Leslie smiled softly, the way her Cupid's bow lips turned up in that cute lopsided way made Siwsan's heart flutter within her chest.

"It's lovely, Siw." Leslie said.

"Well, I know it's not much. Prob'ly nothin' like the Hampshire countryside." Siwsan said, suddenly self-conscious of her living arrangements for the first time since she moved in six months prior.

"No, Siw. Really." Leslie told her, stepping forward to take the older girl's hand in her own, rubbing her thumb gently over the back of Siwsan's wrist, "It's perfect because it's _yours_ and _you_ love it."

"How can I ever hope to keep up with a princess?" Siwsan asked Leslie with a sigh.

"Actually, the closest the Ragostin family has ever gotten to royalty would be country squires." Leslie told Siwsan as her hand crept up the woman's arm slowly.

"Well then, my mistake!" Siwsan teased, "And I thought I could coerce you into marriage and we'd be next in line after Charles for the thrown."

"Ugh! No one wants _Charles_ to be King." Leslie groaned, removing her hand from Siwsan's arm and sidling over to the overstuffed settee where she gracelessly flopped her body down into a lazy sitting position. She winked, coy smile playing on her lips as she patted the space beside her welcomingly.

Siwsan grinned and made her way over to the other girl, pushing her arm out of the way as she tried to find some settee left over for her to sit on, "Oh, budge up! You know, for such a skinny girl you sure do take up loads of space."

"Oh, shut up and let me sleep." Leslie said, arm reaching over to coil itself around Siwsan's shoulders, pulling her closer.

"There is a bed you know." Siwsan giggled, but did not move to get up.

"I suppose there must be." Leslie whispered, "But, hush now. Go to sleep."

"With the lights on?" Siwsan asked her jokingly.

"Yes," replied Leslie, "now sleep."

So that was what they did, arms coiled around each other and bodies hugging one another like a pair of hibernating rattlesnakes.

_February, 2006_

"So let me get this straight." Victor Trever, Sherlock's greatest friend and confidant, said following a long silence, "You suddenly want to get a job."

"Yes." Sherlock replied in affirmation.

"After an entire life of unemployment?"

"Correct."

"In a career path that you . . . made up?" Victor looked at Sherlock as if he had gone completely mad, "You are bloody well insane."

"Colloquialisms." Sherlock said, shaking off his former roommate's comments, "Try to come up with something less plebeian."

"Come now, Sherlock." Violet Holmes warned from her spot at the dining table, "watch your tongue."

"You didn't tell Victor to watch his." Sherlock whined.

"Do shut up, brother." Muttered Mycroft who had been seemingly staring off into space during the previous conversation but was now totally alert to what was happening around him, he turned to his father, "Pass the horseradish sauce."

"Do mind the desert, my good man." Sherlock replied mockingly as Mycroft helped himself to more roast beef.

Mycroft scowled, "Mummy, he's-"

"Not now Mycroft, Sherlock, hush." Siger said in a quiet voice that was enunciated with a low tremor, "You both understand the rules. No fighting at the table."

Sherlock eyed his father without a word before turning back to Victor who sat still as a statue, drink glass in hand while holding an unlit cigarette in the other, his hands shook slightly but Victor did not seem to notice.

"What is it you are looking at, Victor?" Sherlock asked the taller man dryly.

"Nothing, just your lovely cheekbones." He said with a grin and a wink. _Obviously fake, he is extremely uncomfortable. Thus he is flirting, mindlessly, as he always does when faced with any uncomfortable situation. It had been getting even more frequent lately, for some reason even Sherlock Holmes could not pick up on, but in the end it was all the same. Pathetic, really._

"Alright boys!" Sherlock's mother cut through the tension like a carving knife, "Who would like some more suet pudding?"

"I would love some Mummy." said Mycroft as he took yet another helping and began to tuck into his additional meal.

"No, Mrs Holmes, I thank you but, I have had an elegant sufficiency of the numerous delicacies. Any more would be an unsophisticated superfluity, for gastronomic satiety admonishes me that I have reached the ultimate stage of deglutition consistent with dietetic integrity." Said Victor with a smile and a wink that caused Sherlock's mother to role her eyes and Sherlock's father to ask how the two had met again.

"It was in Uni." Victor had told the older gentleman brightly, "My bull terrier, through a great accident, somehow became frozen to Sherlock's ankle on his way down to chapel one morning."

Sherlock nodded, "It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective."

Violet Holmes decided to try once more with her younger son, "Sherlock."

"What is it Mummy?" The young man asked.

"Would you like some suet pudding? You haven't even tasted it yet, usually it's all that you eat."

"Mummy, I cannot eat at the moment." Sherlock told her, "I am on a case."

"Your sister is not a case, Sherlock." Siger Holmes told his son sternly.

"Of course she isn't." Sherlock said, "But that is what the Yard believes and so that is what I believe."

"Anyway Sherlock." Victor said in hopes of resuming their conversation about Sherlock's new ambitious line of work, "How do you expect for the Yard to take you seriously? You aren't even a detective and you have your master's degree in chemistry."

"When I was ten, a boy by the name of Carl Powers drowned in a London swimming pool." said Sherlock, "I believed the death to be suspicious, though the police ruled it to be an accident because of a single factor."

"And what was that?" wondered Victor.

"His shoes, which he had kept in mint condition, were missing." revealed Sherlock with a smug smile.

"What?" Victor asked, "Why would that be important?"

"I have no idea, but to this day I believe Carl Powers was murdered." Sherlock said, "Mind you, I was only aged ten at the time so the police would not listen to me. But now I am older, and have a college degree-"

"And a history with the law." Mycroft muttered, procuring a dark look from his mother, effectively silencing him.

"I've made a contact." Sherlock said with an undertone of pride in his voice.

"Hm." Siger said, "And you think that this contact will aid you in finding Enola?"

"I am almost certain of it." Sherlock assured the older gentleman.

"What's his name?" Violet asked her son.

"Lestrade, newly married, fancies himself capable of becoming the next Head Detective Inspector at the Yard."

"Well that's simply brilliant!" said Victor happily, brightening as if on cue, a smile lighting up his thin lips and brightening his blue eyes, "We should celebrate."

Mycroft looked away as he saw the situation playing out already and wishing no part in what would happen next.

"William," Victor began joyfully, but immediately stopped, looked down, licking his lips and smirking to himself before returning his attention to the other man and returning to the start of his speech, changing his pitch only slightly, "Dear old Sherlock, I do declare, you simply _must_ spend some time with me at my father's estate in Norfolk later this year. July perhaps?"

"I apologise Victor," Sherlock said without missing a beat, "but you are well aware of July being Enola's birth month, I always try to spend the entire month at home as a present to her, I spend most of my time away from the family, you know. And it will be especially important this year to stay close together as I will only have just retrieved her from Coriello's clutches and we wouldn't want her to feel alone, now would we?" Sherlock smiled earnestly at his best friend and then at his brother and parents who were all staring at him rather oddly, as if he had said something that had finally proven the younger Holmes boy to be completely mad, "My sister has never been alone in her life. I cannot allow it to begin now. Not when she needs me the most."

"But, Sherlock." Victor tried, "The offer still stands, even if-"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the other man who halted immediately in his speech, "Let it be known, Victor Trevor, that if my sister is not here by the twenty-seventh of July in time for her birthday, I will dedicate my time to nothing else but finding her." Sherlock smiled at Victor pleasantly, "Have I made myself clear, my friend?"

"As crystal." Victor wheezed, fingers mindlessly unbuttoning his top button in discomfort of the situation.

"Very good then!" Sherlock exclaimed cheerfully, rising up out of his seat and making his way out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom, "It was lovely of you to stop by, Victor. I would greatly appreciate it if this never were to happen again."

"But Sherlock, dear!" Violet called after her younger son, "Aren't you going to even take a bite of your food?"

"Digestion slows me down Mummy!" was the young man's muffled response as he made his way up the stairwell.

_November, 2015_

"I loved her 'til the day she died." Siwsan Owen-Tyler said sadly as she held an undrunk cup of tea in her trembling hands.

"I understand, Mrs Owen-Tyler." said Sherlock and to John, the sadness in the younger man's eyes looked almost earnest.

"But, I can't believe someone would do somethin' like that, you know? Hurt an innocent girl like that." Siwsan said, tears in her eyes once more.

"Wait." John said with narrowed eyes, "What do you mean 'hurt'? Someone hurt her?"

"I dunno." Siwsan sighed in defeat, "I just- No one at the hospital other than the lady who cut up Les's body listened to what I had to say. It's, well, I think somethin' else happened, you know? I couldn't ever see Les of all people killing herself like that. All quiet and such?" Siwsan shook her head, "Nah, that wasn't Les."

"Who was it then?" wondered Sherlock Holmes urgently, "The guy, Vic. She and him had a thing for a while when we was on a yearlong break from each other. Got her up in the duff and left without a word, didn't he?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked in confusion, "My sister has a child?"

"Violet." Siwsan nodded, "I'm . . . I'm so sorry I haven't tried to contact you and . . . that I didn't tell you earlier, it's just, I've raised her as mine for so long that . . . well, I can't bear the thought of anyone taking my little Vi away from me."

Sherlock nodded, "Is she here?"

"Not at the moment, Nat took her to school this morning. But!" Siwsan set her tea cup down on the drip mat and stood up, rushing back over to the desk on the other side of the room, "I've got some photographs of her." Siwsan yanked open that same bottom drawer, this time pulling out a thick, pink photo album.

She smiled sadly at it and pressed her hand over the faded cover before slowly standing straight again and bringing it over to the two men sitting on the sofa in her sitting room.

"Here you are." Siwsan said, "It starts with the pictures of the pregnancy and then of her and Vi. After Les passed I held off on it for a while, but then I decided to take more pictures of Vi by herself, show how she's growin'. I know that's what Les would've wanted me to do."

Opening the cover of the photo album to its first page, Sherlock looked pale and empty, almost ghostlike. John Watson had never seen his best friend this way before and, honestly, it frightened him.

"You . . . you still have the negatives?" Sherlock asked her lamely to which Siwsan replied with a nod.

"Yeah, if you want to take any to make copies of just let me know which ones and I'll get you the proper film." She said.

"How did you get new film, though?" wondered John aloud, "It must have been expensive."

Siwsan shrugged, "My sister works for Ilford. She also gets me photo paper, fixers, toners, and all that. Back then it was her who bought me first camera."

"Did your sister know Leslie?" John asked.

"Yeah, so did the folks." Siwsan said, "We had Christmas dinner at my mum and dad's flat on the East End. Wasn't too far since we lived in Hackney." The woman smiled wryly, "It's sorta funny, but in that way that funny things are often sad. She would always cry during Christmas. It's s'posed to be the 'Happiest Time o' the Year', and she would always cry."

"That was the day she left." Sherlock breathed wistfully, "It was Christmas Day and that was when she left us. Mycroft and I got into a fight about my, well, least tasteful habits. She said something wrong and Mycroft turned on her as well. And then, well, then she left. We followed, but she was gone. We could not find her, and we searched for hours." Sherlock sighed, "We searched for a year before we gave up on her." Turning to look from John to Siwsan with red rimmed blue eyes he spoke, this time in a whisper, "I've never completely given up on any case like I gave up on my sister's. I let her go, and I let her be forgotten. And I cannot even tell her that I am sorry."

John was the only one in the room now who was not crying and it seemed as if the infant nearby had decided to join in on the action when he heard the sound of waling coming from the small intercom that Siwsan had set down on the end table.

"I – I should." Siwsan made to stand but John hushed the woman, rising up instead.

"You stay here." He told her, "I'll take care of your son. The nursery is this way, right?"

Siwsan nodded mutely, silently thanking him with her deep brown eyes. It seemed strange to John, a woman trusting an utter stranger with her new-born child, but, he supposed that it was not the oddest thing to happen to him in the years since he had met and befriended Sherlock. Also, Siwsan seemed like the trusting type, already letting two Holmes into her life without a second thought, whether she knew who they were or not, was a tell if anything.

Opening the door to the nursery, John Watson found himself in a room for two. One half of it the little baby boy's with a cot that was pushed against the wall and a changing station set up beside it. The other side was very neutral. There was a simple twin bed with white sheets and a green duvet. A chest of drawers was in one corner and a small bookshelf was in the other. But what really interested John was the photographs placed atop the little bedside table.

Almost entirely forgetting the screaming infant in the cot, John turned to take a closer look. They were in black and white, one was of a young woman with long, curly hair and light eyes. She was holding a baby, about four months old, by the look of it, in her arms and her cupid bow lips had been pulled into a familiar, exasperated smile. But it was the other picture that had gotten John's attention. This one was of that same woman, looking much less like a woman and more like a girl, standing beside a tall man with light eyes and a coy smirk playing across his thin lips.

Just as he was reaching out to pick the picture up John heard the door open behind him and a voice poor into the room.

"Carl's still cryin', were you having trouble calming him down?" Siwsan asked and then narrowed her eyes, "Oi! What are you doin' with my daughter's things?"

"John?" Sherlock's voice came to join Siwsan's as he came into the doorway, "John, what are you do-"

"I've seen this man before." John said, cutting his friend off before he could finish his question, "When I was going through your old things after the funeral. I saw a picture of this man right here."

And then Sherlock was looking and seeing what John saw.

"Trevor." He growled, eyes narrowed in fury, "He knew where she was and he never said a word. He knew and he said nothing!"

Suddenly Sherlock's phone went off in his coat pocket and he yanked it out and put it against his ear instantly.

"What is it Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with a voice that spit fire, "I am in the middle of an investigation-"

"_Doctor Hooper kept some frozen blood samples taken from Enola just post mortem, as well as a few preserved hair samples." _Mycroft told his younger brother seriously, _"She sent them into the lab for revaluation and also to test for any drugs that could induce hyperthermia."_

"What is it? What did she find?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"_There probably was not enough acetylsalicylic acid in her system to have poisoned her." _Mycroft said, _"She just got the tests back from the labs, Sherlock. They found-"_

Suddenly there was a sound of shuffling and it was Molly Hooper's voice coming out of the receiver.

"_Sherlock, we found 4-dihydroxyphenylalanine." _

"What?" Sherlock asked, "But that's impossible. Levodopa is one of the most controlled prescription drugs. There is no recorded wide use of it recreationally."

"_I know that we're right, Sherlock." _Molly said gravely.

"But, that means Enola really was-" Sherlock fell flat before he could finish.

"_Yes, Sherlock. Someone must have been slipping her the drugs without her knowing it and then was cut off without knowledge. The levodopa must have been the cause of her impaired nigrostriatal, hypothalamic, and mesolimbic dopaminergic functions that we observed when Doctor Stephenson was conducting the original post-mortem." _Molly Hooper paused for a moment, trying to put together her next words, _"Sherlock, I'm sorry. Enola was murdered."_

"Oh, I know." Sherlock said dryly, "And I think I have our suspect."

He hang up and put his mobile back in his coat pocket before turning to John.

"We're going." He said, turning towards the door.

"What do you mean you're going?" Siwsan asked, her now silent son cradled in her arms, "Going where?"

"To find Enola's murderer, of course." Sherlock told them both, a matter-of-fact tone to his voice.

John and Siwsan looked at each other momentarily.

"Enola? Who's-" Siwsan began but John stopped her with a shake of his head.

"Don't ask." He told her, making his way to the door of the nursery, then turning to give Siwsan Owen-Tyler one final note of goodbye, "It will all come out soon enough."

He left the room, muttering to himself as he hurried to catch up with Sherlock, "It always does."

_December, 2008_

"I can't do this with you anymore!" Leslie shouted at Siwsan angrily, "We said we were going to take a break and I can't do that if I see you every day!"

"Please, Les. Don't leave." Siwsan begged, "Not on Christmas."

"No, I can't deal with this." Leslie said, "I can't deal with you."

"I'm sorry, Les." Siwsan grabbed her elbow, pulling her away from the door, "What did I do? What can I do to make us better again?"

"I . . . Siw, please don't do this." This time Leslie was the one who was begging, "Please don't ask me to stay."

"But, how can I not?"

"If you ever really loved me you will let me leave with no further discussion." Leslie finally told the other woman who froze as she let her brain process the incoming information.

"Don't you _ever_ think that I don't love you." She hissed, pulling her hand away from Leslie's arm.

The younger woman felt a pang of guilt hit hard against her chest as she saw the hurt in Siwsan's eyes. But she shook her head, ignoring it. She had to leave, for her own good, and for Siwsan's. Neither of them deserved this, this game, she loved Siwsan too much to deceive her like this any longer, and, at the same time, Leslie – no – Enola loved what was waiting for her downstairs just as much. It was like there were two competing sides to her person, one was Leslie, bitter young woman with a sardonic sense of humour and a love of fish-n-chips coupled with a pint of Guinness, the other was Enola, angry runaway who missed everything and would go home in a moment if it weren't for her stubborn disposition. Enola tried too hard. Leslie didn't try at all. Enola was one for tradition with a twist. Leslie was one for twisting tradition's arm behind its back until it surrendered. But perhaps, Enola Holmes thought as she walked down the stairwell to meet the shadowed figure at the bottom, the worst part about being a person with two sides was the fact that Leslie loved Siwsan Owen while Enola Eudora Heddassa Holmes was in love with the man at the bottom of the stairs, who shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, his back arched slightly and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat to keep them from trembling.

Victor Trevor smirked playfully as he stepped out of the shadows to greet the girl at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Are we all done here, Leslie?" He asked her and she gave him a shove.

"Do shut up Vic, your attractiveness goes down exponentially with every word you say." She teased him, "Also, my name is Enola Holmes, please don't forget that again."

"Dually noted, Miss Holmes." Victor said, offering her his arm, "Would you like to join me? I've a cab waiting nearby."

"It would be an honour, Mr Trevor." said Enola as she took the man's arm.

There was a small smile playing on her Cupid 's bow lips as he led her to the cab that would begin their journey off of this damnable island and away from everything they had ever known.


End file.
